


These Demons They Calling My Soul

by Theboys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Dissociation, M/M, Marking, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Benny, Rimming, Season/Series 08 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 20:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5389148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That’s why you don’t raise ‘em. You don’t take care of them just for them to turn around and disappoint you, spit in the face of you and your God.</p><p>Dean's a different beast upon returning from Purgatory, and can't fathom how his brother didn't search for him then, and is preparing to leave him now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Demons They Calling My Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/105174.html?thread=39838934#t39838934) over at spn_kink meme. (Contains spoilers if you care to read).
> 
> Title taken from Scholarships by Drake & Future.  
> On a side note, I work in the mental health field, in a hospital, so my description of PTSD and Dean's dissociative episodes are drawn from these experiences. These instances are fictionalized for the sake of plot.

When Dean is fifteen, he’s laid up on bed rest cause he twisted his ankle chasing a Black Dog three counties over, John hot on his legs like Hell.

He can remember not being the best company for Sammy, eleven years old, hair cropped close to his head the way he would rebel against in coming years. It’s a little flat on the right, because Sam likes to read curled in on his side, one pink hand tucked flush against his cheek.

Dean can’t walk on his right ankle.

Sam’s pressed snug against him, and Dean’s hot like flame. Sam burns brighter than any damn sun ever could, he’s sure, but Sam’s scared to leave Dean alone, and Dean can understand that. So, the kid stays. He’s reading Ender’s Game, and every time Dean is that much closer to the edge of sleep, his little brother turns a page, and Dean’s up.

“Can’t you read quieter, Sammy?” Dean grumbles, distant pulse of his swollen joint too thick for him to exert any real anger.

Sam’s back is pressed to his chest and the kid shrugs. “M’already readin’ in my head, Dean.” Sam says, so serious, an honest monk. Sam twists a little bit, rucks the blue of his t-shirt up above his hipbones. Dean presses his warm palm to the exposed skin, and Sammy shivers a second at the contrast.

“Want me to read to you?” Sam says, cranes his neck back to meet Dean’s eyes with green-gold. They’re dark in the dwindling light, and guileless, heavy blinks of lethargy.

This kid’s gonna be the death of him someday.

“Sure, Sammy,” Dean says instead, and then Sam turns back around, grips the book with more authority than before.

Sam begins carelessly, knows that if he tries to start back from the beginning, Dean’ll just insist that he skip back to where he left off.

“...but all the same, Ender’s older than I am. He’s not a child. He’s barely a person.” Sam reads.

“If that’s true, sir, then at least we all know that Ender is making it possible for the others of his age to be playing in the park.” Dean leans onto his back, jostling the makeshift pillow-shelf Sammy’s made for his ankle.

“And Jesus died to save all men, of course.” Sam reads, voice tilting up at the end of each sentence like he just can’t help himself. “Graff sat up and looked at Anderson almost sadly.” Sammy pauses, and Dean nudges him, almost against his will.

“Gonna stop reading at the good part, Sammy?” Dean says, and he feels, rather than hears, Sam’s answering snort. “You mighta been asleep, Dean,” Sam mutters, flattens the spine of the book against the sheets for better access.

“But we’re the ones--we’re the ones who’re driving in the nails.” Sam finishes, and Dean’s right leg gives a phantom twitch.

-

The next morning, Sam’s as sick as a dog.

Ender’s Game has tumbled to the floor, spine rucked up like a bitch in heat, and Sam’s body is clammy to the touch. His skin’s the color of curdled milk, and Dean runs his hands across Sam’s ribs like braille, can count each one as they push into his fingertips.

Dean’s out of the bed like lightning, doesn’t even register the dull ache of bone as he rests all his weight on his ankle.

They’re in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and it’s not like there are that many visitors around, isolation, isolated, just the way Dad likes ‘em. Dean’s all for that too, less questions to answer. Dean can carve sigils into the earth, bury salt in the pipes.

But now he can’t walk, and all he’s got is the Sauer, for easy access, concealed under his pillow.

He’s young, not stupid.

No way Sammy oughta be that sick, with no warning signs. Dean’s like, the High Priest of Sam, and he knows when the kid’s about to come down with so much as the common cold, but right now Sam’s breath sounds like paper ripping, and his skin is inching from colorless to grey.

This ain’t nowhere close to natural.

Dean bundles him up as best he can, and Sam whimpers once, tiny hand out in the reach for Dean’s. It shakes in the air and then flops down uselessly, and Dean surprises himself with the wet sound that comes out of his mouth.

Dad’s not gonna answer if he calls, and Dean doesn’t spare a passing thought for that truth. He clears his throat four times as the phone rings, and he’s in the middle of the fifth when Bobby picks up.

“S’wrong boy?” Bobby says, no time for wasting words. “Bobby, Sam’s sick as hell. Nothing at all last night, and this morning he looks like he’s about a minute away from the grave.” Dean says, and his voice holds steady, way he’s learned.

Bobby grunts. “What’s he look like?” Bobby’s voice is warmer, always sounds that way for Sammy, everyone sounds that way for him. Dean’s right next to him, and he can feel that wet-snow sound gurgling in his throat again.

“Pale, like spoiled milk. But he’s kind of--I don’t know Bobby, grey right now.” Dean pauses, his hands flit over Sammy’s body without touching, like he’s enshrined. Sam whimpers again, and Dean hears the phone crack a bit in his fist.

“He’s breathing funny too, Bobby,” Dean continues, and then Bobby’s speaking, no pause in between his words.

“John’s got y’all in the mountains, right?” Bobby says, and Dean’s nodding and answering at the same time. “Yessir. Blue Ridge.” Dean says.

“Listen to me, Dean.” Bobby says, and Dean curls his fingers around his little brother’s limp wrist.

“Yessir.”

“Anything red, a scarf, a shirt, some fabric, anything, wrap it around the kid’s neck.” Bobby says. Dean’s mildly confused but he’s already standing, can see that shit scarf hanging on a chair, the one Sammy makes him wear every time he goes outside.

He ties it around Sam’s neck loosely, enough to breathe.

“Done it?” Bobby says, and Dean grunts. “Yessir. Now what?”

Dean can hear Bobby flipping pages, and it’s a decidedly homey sound. “Your brother’s been touched by an Acheri. Ghost of a little girl that feeds on kids, mainly. Makes ‘em sick enough til they die.” Bobby reads.

Dean’s eyes scan his brother again, contrast of blood to milk-bone.

“We’ve got salt everywhere, Bobby,” Dean says helplessly, and the way Bobby laughs, Dean won’t understand til years from now.

“You’re on her mountain, boy. There’s a lot of shit stronger than you are.” Bobby says quietly.

Dean stays up that entire night, slippery-tight grip on Sam’s fingers.

Years from now, when he escapes Purgatory, stares up at the dark of his ceiling in the Bunker, he’ll recall that it feels a lot like this. The waiting.

It’s the second worst thing that could happen to him.

-

When Dean sleeps, it’s accidental.

He cleans his guns before (during) bed, Beretta, Sauer and Sig, one after the other. He rubs his eyes vigorously in the morning when he sees Sammy, yawns so hard his jaw pops in sympathy.

He wasn’t dead in Purgatory, but he feels less alive here.

He closes his eyes at three in the morning, and there are wide open caverns and sharp nothingness.

-

Sam’s a lot of things, but smart is not necessarily always one of them.

Sure, he’s book smart, memory almost infallible to the point where it used to piss Jess off to no end. But all he’s got right now is about a day late and a dollar short.

He glances up at the figure in front of him, smells like ash and pine, and he can see the gleam of canines even from across the room.

“Sammy Winchester. You’n me, we got ourselves a date.”

-

Dean’s leaning heavy across the bar, and he knows he’s quickly tipping past the point where he can keep his shit together. It’s not even that late, only about eleven, and he wonders if you can get a hangover while still drunk.

If you can, he’d be the first.

The bartender likes him well enough, Dean’s keeping the chicks fairly close to the man, and they’re being pretty liberal tippers.

Mike, the bartender, (yeah, they’re on a first-name basis) tips his head at Dean with a smile, slings him another shot of Jack.

“Keep it down, buddy,” Mike says good naturedly, and Dean rolls his eyes. Keep it down his ass. Dean’s been drinking heavy since he was fourteen, local anesthetic for wounds well above his pay grade.

“Sure, kid,” Dean says, just as wide and friendly.

There’s a blonde near him, bouncing tits and teased hair. He’s honestly more partial to the brunette on her other side, the way the black dress clings to generous curves, but the blonde is closer. More importantly, Dean doesn’t trust himself to navigate around the blonde to get to her friend.

Beggars can’t be choosers, Dean thinks forlornly.

But then, when’s he ever had to beg for anything? Pussy or otherwise? Dean grins widely, the way that makes women press themselves even further into his personal space.

“Sweetheart, you’re gonna get me too close to the finish line like that.” Dean drawls, and somewhere, he knows Sammy is rolling his eyes hard enough to give him a headache.

The blonde laughs, Shannon, Shanly, something like that, and Dean leans low to nip at her earlobe.

“That what you want?” Dean says, plants his hands around the smooth of her hips, where they’re peeking from above the waist of her low-slung jeans. “Want it like that?” Dean whispers, and he’s good at this.

He knows he’s dirty-low enough, and she almost stops grinding in his hands, melting into his lap like butter.

Dean can lay it on thick, but that’s the sort of thing that’ll draw them in. He can’t tell if he’s turning himself down or turning them up, but there’s something else when he’s just speaking to them like this, presses ear-close, alongside the shivers.

She whimpers, loose sound in her mouth, and Dean slaps a five to an imaginary Sam. Sam’s arm is limp, he doesn’t ever push back against Dean’s palm. When he’s in a good mood though, Sammy’ll wink, and his lips will quirk up, just a little. Dean knows that his brother’s good with it then.

Dean growls to himself, or at least, he means for it to be his alone, because Shannon sighs again, desire-ridden sound.

“Jesus you’re hot,” she slurs against his cheek, and Dean leans his head up and away.

Sam’s a fuckhead anyway. Kid’s out here telling him he’d rather settle the fuck down, and hunting doesn’t do jack shit for him.

Dean’s fingers tighten around Shanly’s waist and she moves even further into his palms.

That’s why you don’t raise ‘em. You don’t take care of them just for them to turn around and disappoint you, spit in the face of you and your God. Only God Dean has, anyway.

Dean hears something like falling glass, and a yell, and then everything slides a little to the left. Dean likens it to the idea of the Titanic sinking, gradual descent until the very end, when the water rises  rapidly to consume.

He’s like a glass of whiskey on a tilted shelf, and he’s rushing toward the fall.

Dean’s well-oiled and primed, he knows that, but he’s still shocked at his level of speed. He’s got his blade in his hand, from his _boot,_ in less than ten seconds.

Shanty is next to him in that moment, rather than between his legs, and he wouldn’t have put it past himself to have bodily moved her there. Dean’s got the knife in an overhand swing, not a purely defensive stance, and he can feel the barrel of his Sig digging into the small of his spine.

There’s a malicious growl emanating from him, and it’s so similar to how he and Benny used to fight that that’s what snaps him out of it.

Mike-the-bartender is staring at him, and so is the rest of the bar. He blinks once, and he can feel the frisson of adrenaline lance through his body. He doesn’t look at the blonde, and he’s got a hard time, impossible, really, lowering his blade down to his side.

He’s almost home free too, and then there’s the unmistakable smash of a beer bottle against wood.

This time, Dean doesn’t even have the chance to react, because someone else is doing it for him.

“Asshole!” The voice rings out, and it’s thick with beer and liquor, and Dean’s own vision is fading rapidly. All he can feel is the threat, and he sees black eyes and wine-dark gashes. His blade is back in his palm and it stings a little but he can’t rightly understand why, and the voice is that much closer.

Dean can see that the man’s made a shank of the beer bottle, and all of a sudden Dean can’t see anything but earth and blood and it scares him.

He’s bringing the knife up, and someone is screaming, Jesus fuck it’s loud in here,

and then there’s a definitive twist to his wrist, sharp bend to the left, and there are only two people who have ever been close enough to his sphere to get the drop on him like that, and one of them is long dead, burnt to bone on a funeral pyre.

“Motherfucker--” is about as far as Dean gets when Sam slices through his vision, in between him and Heineken over there.

Dean can count the thud in his heart, ricochets off his ribs like a bomb, and he wishes he could see through Sammy at least, if not over him.

Heineken lunges.

Dean’s in motion even faster than Sam, and that’s a feat because Sam’s closer, and for a guy so big, he’s agile, same way as the lanky teen Dean sparred with when they were kids.

Dean’s in between his little brother and the shank before he knows what’s going on. He’s got an elbow to the soft part just below Sam’s ribs, one fragile second to disable his brother, because that’s all he’s gonna need when he kills this piece of goddamn shit, this motherfuckin’ waste of space--

and Dean’s got Heineken in a half-nelson, other hand occupied with jerking his Sig out of the confines of his waistband.

The gun feels unwieldy in his hand, it’s his, his brain knows it, but his fingers catch on the safety and he shoves the metal against Heineken’s throat, soft, frightened pulse of his Adam’s apple.

The man shudders in his grasp, and Dean feels a distinct warmth pool into the fabric at his thighs.

“Jesus Christ, you wettin’ yourself over here, tough guy?” Dean says, croons it loud into Heineken’s ear.

Gun’s pressed so firmly to the skin that Dean knows Heineken can’t feel it quivering, but Dean’s got a death grip on it, so no matter how hard the damn thing shakes, bullet’ll still go exactly where Dean wants it, when he wants it there.

“Forgettin’ your manners,” Dean says, and it sounds brittle, even to him. “What’s that you were planning? Gonna hit and run?” The man whimpers, and Dean tightens his lock around the man’s neck in contempt.

Coward.

“Weren’t even gonna get to know me first? Ask me my name?” Dean runs his thumb over the safety, ensures it’s clicked off.

Motherfucking Alpha-men, unholy dependence on testosterone and public appearances.

Dean hears Sam’s voice from far away, like underwater, and there’s a frantic quality to it, like his brother’s been talking for a while, angling for Dean’s attention. The irritable quality Dean hears from Sammy so often in times like this, is absent.

“Dean. Dean.” Dean hears, and he snarls, can’t help it, because he wants to kill this piece of shit for wasting his goddamn time.

“Dean. You gotta come with me, man.” Sam’s voice sounds strange to Dean’s ears, but Dean doesn’t take his eyes off of Heineken, follows the slick swallow against the barrel of his Sig.

Dean shakes the sound off. Sam’s not even on his side. Sam’s not even _by his side_

“Ah. Shit, Dean, m’bleeding, man.” Sam’s voice is abruptly plaintive, and close, and Dean’s eyes flick up once, from where they’ve been settled.

Sam’s holding his palm locked to his chest, painfully, Dean might add, and Dean’s eyes catalogue Sam’s body, slight shift back into Heineken’s visibly trembling form.

“What?” Dean says, and, well then. That’s not what he meant to say at all.

“Bleeding, Dean. Might need you to patch me up.” Sam’s smile is forced, tight at the corners the way it is when he’s holding something back, and there’s something a little off about it that Dean can’t place, and Christ, his head’s killing him.

“Alright. Alright, Sammy.”

As soon as Dean releases Heineken, the big man slumps, like a wet blanket, Dean thinks unkindly, and Dean blinks to himself. The entire bar is dead silent, and Sam’s grabbing at his shoulder, like a straightjacket and a lifeline all at once.

Dean’s head burns.

Sam turns him bodily to the door, my God he’s drunker than he thought, and Dean catches snatches of Sam saying something to Mike-the-bartender.

“Iraq man, he won’t leave home without it.” Sam’s saying, and Dean shakes his head, thankful that one of them isn’t royally fucked by too many shots and not enough corresponding brain cells.

It’s dark as sin outside, and Dean’s body locks in place. He flits his head, left, then right, then back again, four times by his habitual count.

Sam’s hand is large in the dark, and when it curls around Dean’s upper arm, he reaches for his blade again, but he doesn’t find it.

Sam blocks Dean’s blow with ease, curls his free hand around Dean’s raised arm.

“Jesus _Christ_ Dean, stop! Two seconds man!” Sam swears, and releases Dean just as quickly.

Dean can’t see anything, and he doesn’t like it, walks carefully over to the Impala. “Keys, Dean,” Sam says tightly, and Dean can’t see anything but his brother’s silhouette, menacing in the non-light.

“Live a little, Sammy. I ain’t near drunk enough.” Dean says, leans into the metal on the driver’s side. Sam doesn’t say anything for a second, but then he pickpockets Dean so quickly that Dean lurches back in shock.

“Sammy!”

Sam nudges him to the passenger side, gently, all things considered, and Dean doesn’t argue anymore, finds he’s suddenly exhausted. Doesn’t want to do anything besides go to bed.

Sam’s buckling him up, and then they’re on the move, hiss of cool air against his face from the lowered window.

“Tired as hell,” Dean hears himself say, and Sam doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Sleep then, man. I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

Dean turns his face further into the wind, and his eyes burn and water as they inhale the feeling. “Don’ sleep,” Dean mutters, and resolves to look at Sammy’s hand when they get back.

-

Dean wonders if you can dream wide awake.

Cause right now, all he can see is Cas surrounded by Leviathans, blue-eyes tip-tilted up to Dean’s.

_Without me, Dean._

_They’re too close. I can’t. Run._

Dean shuts his eyes tighter, but that’s no help either, because now he can see Andrea, low-slide of fangs as she descends.

Benny won’t kill her. He won’t raise a hand to her.

There’s a reckoning in that.

-

Sam’s knuckles are so white they might as well be a part of his marrow at this point.

“So tense, Sammy-boy. I ain’t gonna bite.”

Sam thinks he might desecrate a book for the first time in his life, but as it is, he closes the volume slowly, sets it down beside him on the desk.

The vampire blinks lazily in his direction, scratches the perpetual shadow of his facial hair.

“Why do I get the feelin’ you boys don’t do so well with the whole concept of talkin’?” Benny quips, and Sam’s body is halfway to hurtling out of his seat when Benny holds up a hand.

“Don’t go breaking any bones now, boy,” Benny drawls, drags a chair from a nearby study-alcove and scoots it next to Sam.

“Go on then,” Benny says, sitting, and there’s something tight and feral in his voice that wasn’t there a few seconds ago.

“Tell me what’s got you so up in arms, Sammy.”

-

When Dean was seventeen he almost tore clean through his PCL. He thought, maybe, that this was it, that he’d fucked it up irreversibly, and that Dad would sideline him forever.

He thought maybe Sammy would have to wheel him around for the rest of their lives.

Kid would’ve done it too, then, rolled Dean to piss, poured him the copious amounts of liquor he would have needed to survive.

Now, all Dean can remember is Vance and that damn penny, the way Sam had looked when Dean had told him damn near everything.

Dean’s somewhere on the edge of his sleep, darkness hanging like a shroud, suffocating in its intensity.

_Cause everything you’ve ever done since you climbed into my ride has been to deceive me_

_I might’ve lied, but I never once betrayed you. I never once left you to die. And for what, a girl? You left me to die for a girl?_

Dean lunges over side of the bed so quickly he lands on his knee, the weak one, and it sends a tremor through his body and he bites down on his jaw to keep from crying out.

And now it’s out there. He’s been doing damned fine without it too, riding around quiet with Sammy by his side, his little brother as inaccessible as a clean ending.

Dean pulls himself up with his left leg, denies his right any of his weight.

He’s just gotta make it to the damn toilet.

He vomiting almost before he can pull the lid up, and shit, that burns. He’s crying too, whether that’s from the bile or the memory-nightmare, he can’t tell.

He’s dragging himself back upright, Jesus, that’s painful, when the door to his room pops open with a bang.

“Fuck!” Dean hollers, and then his right leg gives out entirely. His hip clips the side of the toilet as he goes down, and then he’s scrambling back into the corner between toilet and shower, needs the wall at his back, that way he can see the left and the right and the open door of the bathroom.

He’s in his boxers and he jerks at the shower curtain hard enough that the slippery fabric jerks free of the little rings that connect it to the bar.

Barrier.

That’s enough until he can get himself standing again.

Sam wheels around the corner, hair matted to his scalp, Taurus held tight in both hands.

“Dean?!” Sam yells, and Dean wraps the shower curtain in his fists.

“Need a good grip,” Dean says, and Sam’s eyes take in the scene and his nose wrinkles up. The gun is lowered to the side but Dean’s not convinced, can see the stretch of Not-Sam’s neck and the way his mouth will contort to take over the entirety of his face if he leans back wide--all teeth and black and dagger.

“Dean?” Not-Sam tries again, walks a step closer, but Dean shoves himself back further, whimper escaping his mouth. He wants to make words, make him stay _back_ but there’s nothing left in his throat to use as air.

His stomach lurches painfully.

Not-Sam’s face changes visibly, and then he’s setting the gun down, connects with Dean’s eyes and sets the Taurus on the sink with an audible click.

Dean’s cutting off the circulation in his hands with the plastic of the curtain, but he likes it there. He can throw it over Not-Sam’s face if he gets too close, strangle him with it, if need be.

“Hey, Dean,” Not-Sam says, and he’s holding his hands out, they’re empty, Dean can tell.

Not-Sam doesn’t move, but he keeps eye contact with Dean just the same.

“You remember that time that I got gum stuck in my hair at night?” Not-Sam says, off-handedly, and Dean pulls back, just a little.

“When I was nine, remember?” Not-Sam says, laughs quietly to himself. “You told me not to sleep with it in my mouth, but I said I’d done it before, and nothing bad had happened then.” Not-Sam folds his long limbs up and sinks to the ground, Indian-style.

Dean pulls his knees up so that they touch his chest.

“You had to buzz it all off.” Sam says, shrugs with faux-carelessness.

“I didn’t care so much then, but Dad was shocked as hell.” Sam pauses. “I didn’t chew gum for like, three years after that.”

Dean snorts against his will, and Sam’s head flips up to blink at him.

“Dean?” He says slowly, and Dean can suddenly feel all his age in his bones right then.

“Fuck, Sam,” he grunts, swipes at the wet of his cheeks. His body is killing him, and he remembers that he grabbed onto the curtain right before he fell.

His mouth tastes like fucking ass.

Sam holds a hand out to help him up and Dean shoves it back, slaps at it, open-palmed. He levers up using the edge of the toilet, knocks the lid down loudly on his ascent.

He flushes once more for good measure and leans down low enough to rub at his right knee.

Sam crosses his arms over his chest, but he doesn’t look angry, his face of devoid of everything, really.

“You want some ice for that?” Sam asks, jerks his head in the direction of the bum knee. Dean raises a brow. “S’fine, Sam. I’ll wrap it and stretch it and even say a goodnight prayer over it.” Dean stiffens his back in an attempt to hide his noticeable limp.

“That make you feel better?” Dean says, gives Sam a wide berth as he exits the bathroom.

Sam’s arms are tighter, and there’s a hint of color in his little brother’s cheeks, but Sam doesn’t actually say anything.

“We good here?” Dean says pointedly, cause, _damn,_ he’s exhausted.

Sam’s looking at him like he wants to say something, and Dean hates that fucking look, because that means he’s in for a Talking To, and he really doesn’t have the stomach to listen to anything that comes out of the kid’s mouth right now.

“You can stand there like you’re deaf, blind and dumb all night Sam, but m’going to bed.” Dean says, and Sam finally moves, backs out of Dean’s sphere like he’s too hot to contain.

“Okay. Okay Dean, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Dean’s eyes stay wide even after Sammy closes his door softly, and Dean sighs heavily.

“I bet you will.”

-

“See,” Benny begins conversationally, low enough that the library patrons don’t spare them a second glance, “the problem is, you ain’t got a damn idea how much that boy’s worth.”

Sam’s never, ever, been trigger happy, but he thinks he could unload a full clip on this son of a bitch right here, right now.

“He’s my brother,” Sam says quietly, and he’s rapidly reaching the threshold of so infuriated he’s calm.

Benny smirks, leans backwards in his chair until the front legs are lifted a few inches off of the ground. “Is he?” Benny asks.

Sam hears the wood under his fingertips creak a bit with the pressure of his grip.

_The only person that hasn’t let me down is Benny._

“He’s mine,” Sam grits out, and that even sounds wrong in his mouth.

Benny leans forward so quickly that the chair smacks back down like a thunderclap, and then his fangs elongate, and he’s about twelve inches too close to Sam’s personal space.

“You ain’t the brightest candle, are you Sam?” Benny says, and this time it’s laced with derision, and something like pity. “You don’t know what happened there, what it’s like. Do you?”

-

Dean wakes himself up when he sends his cereal bowl across the room in an impressive arc with one sweep of his arm.

The bowl smashes against the opposite wall so forcefully that it explodes into shards on impact.

Dean’s face is wet and he can see them, they’re closing in and if they grab him again, not one more time. He’ll kill them and then himself, in that order. He can’t breathe with his ribs broken like this, and it’s already hard, even though Benny wraps him up tight, every morning.

Dean skids his chair backwards and it clips the wall as well, but it remains intact.

Sam’s already standing up from the table in the corner of Dean’s vision but Dean can’t even really see him because it’s dark out here, and it’s not morning and they always come right on the edge of morning, and Benny’s on watch again.

“Sam!” Dean yells.

Dean shuts his mouth and thanks any God out there that Benny isn’t here to hear him call out for his brother like a bitch.

Sam’s not here. Not here. Not coming.

He’s gonna be in this no-place forever and Sammy isn’t here. He’s kind of pleased about that, even though he needs to _focus_ because they could be coming closer, and he’s already injured. He can’t afford to be this sloppy.

Dean can see Sammy edging away from his side of the kitchen table, and his face is all twisted up, like he’s in actual pain.

Dean backs away from the movement, knocks his knees against the lip of his chair and almost falls backwards into it.

Right, left, then right and left again. Four, do it in fours.

He wraps his left arm around his ribs. He’s got to protect them, at least at the outset. If they take him again, it’ll be no matter, because they did this to him in the first place. They’ll remember what they did.

Dean watches as Sam navigates around the broken bowl and stands a few feet away from him. The clunk of his air in his lungs is disconcerting, and he manages his breathing carefully, way he’s been taught.

“Hey Dean, were you aiming for my head, or something?” Sam says, and Dean wants to tell him to shut the hell up, because they’ll hear him, if he’s talking that loud.

“I gotta tell you, man, your aim’s gettin’ rusty then.” Sam says, and his smile is crooked, Dean notes. His brother’s eyes are pinched, and Dean gets it. Sammy’s scared. That’s the face Sam makes when he’s frightened.

Dean huffs out a laugh. Like anything’s getting past him for Sam. Sam doesn’t even know how to survive here. The constant thrum of the kill hovering inside your bones, the way you aren’t ever safe. How safety is the memory of a want.

Sam grins, and Dean loosens his grasp against his ribs.

“Shit, it’s like the time you knocked me out playing kickball.” Sam’s smiling now, and Dean can feel the racehorse clip of his heart.

“You were fine, just bruised you,” Dean says, and Sam scrambles a little closer to him. Dean feels his legs lock up and he shakes his head, once, twice.

Sam halts his forward progress and presses himself in small, which is weird to Dean, what with Sam being built like a brickhouse now.

“Knocked the wind out of me.” Sam says, in that serious way he has. “Thought I saw God.”

Dean stands up, twists the chair from underneath his ass and shoves it back underneath the table. He glances over to the wreckage of porcelain and winces. “Sorry Sam, guess I woke up and forgot there was a bowl there.” Dean shrugs and starts to scour the kitchen for the dustpan.

Sam’s upright and in his face so quickly that Dean blanches a little.

“We gotta talk, Dean. We gotta talk about this.” Sam says, and he sounds desperate.

“About what?” Dean says, angles his body from around the wall of Sam. “I broke a bowl. Shit happens. I’ll clean it up and then you can rest easy.” Dean says.

“Dean, do you remember talking to me last night?” Sam says, and his voice has that pinched quality to it again, and nothing aggravates Dean more.

“Sam, you said you’d talk to me tomorrow, I went to sleep.” Dean pauses, turns halfway to face his brother. “You trying to do that talkin’ now?” Dean asks.

“You’re not sleeping,” Sam says flatly, and Dean raises his eyebrows. “Just fell asleep right there,” Dean says, points to where he was just sitting a few minutes ago. “If that wasn’t sleeping, I don’t know what is.”

Sam isn’t deterred, doesn’t even move from his spot. “At night, Dean. You don’t sleep. Don’t look at me like that,” Sam says. “I know you don’t, you haven’t slept in weeks.”

Dean locates the broom, finally, and begins to sweep one-handed, soothed by the tinkle of ceramic against wood.

“What do you want me to say, Sam?” Dean says, not looking up. “It’s fucking quiet here. I can’t sleep. S’like a damn tomb.”

Sam doesn’t answer for a second and so Dean looks up from where he’s bent down next to the dustpan. Sam’s eyes are wet and Dean’s momentarily confused. “What’s this about, Sammy?” Dean asks.

“I could sleep near you, like--like you used to.” Sam says haltingly, and Dean freezes entirely. He remembers what Sam’s talking about. Sammy’s first hunts, gangly and new to the fresh scent of blood and decay. He couldn’t sleep worth shit after a hunt, wired up on adrenaline and residual fear.

Dean used to sleep with him, and as they got older, on a pallet on the floor beside Sam’s bed. Took Sam a while to come down from the high.

Dean shoves the last of the shards into the dustpan and stands, right leg twitching as it almost gives out beneath him. Dean levels his gaze at Sam and smiles.

“Ah Sammy. You made sure you weren’t there then, so what’s being here now gonna do?”

-

“They grabbed him once, y’know,” Benny says, and the smooth gin of teasing is absent from his voice.

Benny’s holding his right fist in his open palm, and he’s not looking up at Sam, studying the whorls of wood on the library table, underneath Sam’s plethora of books.

“We slept separate when we were on watch.” Benny’s motionless now, and Sam doesn’t think he can listen to this.

“I was--uh, I was the first line’a defense.” Benny says. “They flanked us, and they grabbed him, and he was stabbing ‘em all, fighting like hell, your brother was,” Benny says, and there’s a flicker of fondness in his voice that’s tempered by something more heady that Sam wants to examine further.

Sam wants to scream, wants to grab Benny by the lapel of his coat and shake his teeth loose for letting his brother get taken--but he’s got no right.

He hasn’t got the right to anything that’s touched by Dean, and that hits him harder than everything else combined.

Benny’s looking at him closely now, and Sam sees the shadow of understanding pass over Benny’s face.

“Jesus, I ain’t rest, I can promise you that, Sam. Looked for nigh on two weeks.” Benny says tonelessly, and Sam resolutely does not think about Dean, more alone than he’s ever been before, in an endless space of carnage, with Leviathans.

“They broke his ribs,” Benny’s saying, and Sam pulls himself back. “They what?” Sam hisses, and he jars himself.

“Broke ‘em,” Benny repeats needlessly. “Me’n Angel-boy looked for him everywhere.” Sam recalls Cas with a twist of guilt in his stomach.

“Where was he that night, the night they snatched him,” Sam clarifies, and Benny’s mouth slopes into a frown.

“He was like a damn beacon for them monsters,” Benny says. “He didn’t stay with us at night, usually, too dangerous.”

Sam presses his head into his hands.

Benny’s right.

They don’t talk.

-

Dean’s glad Sam’s not here, pleased the kid’s getting groceries or books or some other shit that they need to survive that Dean’s too fucked up to procure on his own anyway.

Probably because he can’t breathe.

And if he doesn’t get more than two hours sleep at a time, he’s gonna die, and that’s not an exaggeration.

He knows he’s supposed to be taking calculated breaths, but all he can wonder is what if this is it, he can’t get enough air into his damn lungs, so he dies like this, hyperventilating.

He wants to laugh but he doesn’t have near enough air for it.

His cheeks are damp and he’s almost too out of it to realize that he’s crying, because he’s so damn sick of this, so tired of losing bits of himself, passages of time, not being able to close his eyes without seeing Cas, or being strapped to a tree, black tar and the gurgle of his own blood.

So when he passes out, he thinks he’s gotten his first miracle in a long time.

-

“He talks to me, y’know,” Benny continues, and his voice isn’t quite right, but it’s better than it was.

“Calls me when he needs to, and you already know I do the same for him.” Benny says, and there’s the bite in his voice that Sam was looking for.

“You want a prize,” Sam says dully, because he gets it. He knows exactly how worthless he’s been.

“You sonovabitch, listen to me. You think about _him._ This ain’t got nothing to do with your damn pity party.” Benny says, and Sam jerks his head up.

“What?” Sam asks stupidly.

“This ain’t about you. Not even a little bit. He don’t sleep, Sam.” Benny says carefully, and Sam knows the man’s thinking about how much of Dean’s confidence to disclose.

“He don’t say it in so many words, but I know what it looks like.” Benny says. Benny pulls a book closer to him, flips open the cover and pretends to peruse the contents.

“He used to have nightmares, after we got him back.” Benny says quietly, and Sam’s knee slaps against the bottom of the table from where it’s jittering uncontrollably.

Benny looks up from the page and fixes Sam with an impenetrable gaze. “He asked for you, when he was asleep. Only one he ever mentioned.” Benny’s eyes are far away again, and Sam doesn’t think he deserves to follow him to that place.

“What if I can’t fix it,” Sam says, and it’s so soft he almost hopes Benny doesn’t hear.

“If’n I thought I could do this without you boy, be there for him without you,” Benny says, “I’d do it in a heartbeat.” Sam stiffens with the proclamation, but Benny slams the book closed with finality.

“M’not what he needs.” Benny says dryly, and Sam’s head is spinning from trying to get a read on Benny, find out what the man’s thinking and break it apart for examination.

“You remember that you ain’t never known what it’s like to have nobody come for you.” Benny admonishes, and then he’s standing, and Sam can feel the tight pulse of anger underneath the vampire’s skin, the way he’s holding himself back, for or because of Dean.

Sam thinks the reasons are the same.

“S’not like me,” Benny says. “I ain’t have anyone to come, one way or the other.”

Benny flips the collar of his coat up, and Sam never wants to see him again, but also, he can’t leave.

“You chose not to come after him, Sam.” Benny’s face is devoid of all emotion now, like he’s locked himself away on purpose.

“He talked about you, all the time,” Benny says thoughtfully, and now he’s finally turning away. “Way he spoke about you, I thought you were some kinda God.” Sam can’t see Benny’s face, but that’s fine, he can hear the disgust all the same.

“God like that, who needs the Devil?”

-

_He can’t even talk, they’ve strangled him so often and so thoroughly that he doubts he’ll ever be able to speak a word again._

_Never notice how much you’ve gotta swallow until you’re consciously trying to refrain._

_“You think we can’t leave this place?”_

_Dean can’t answer._

_“You’ve made war with us. We’ll return the favor. We know what you love, Winchester.”_

Dean’s eyes whip open and he can’t move his arms.

“Jesus. Christ, please let me go. Fuck, please. Please.” His arms are abruptly loosened, and he blinks the residual tears from his eyes. They’ve already spilled down his face, and he clutches his hands close to his chest, heaves out his air in phantom bursts.

Sam’s hair brushes his cheeks, and he laughs, a damp sound, because he can’t even see Sam’s face, but he knows it’s his brother from the feeling of his hair.

“Dean. Dean, it’s me. It’s Sammy, Dean.” Sam says, and his words are low, gentle things, and Dean can feel his face heat up.

“Nightmare. M’good, go back to bed.” Dean flips on his side, faces away from Sam’s bulk, and he can feel his brother hovering in the dark.

“Jesus Dean, I’m so sorry. Goddamn, I’m sorry.”

Dean’s entire body stiffens and he can hear himself wheezing, leftover from the memory.

“S’fine. I probably would’ve hit you if you didn’t hold me down.” Dean says. “Kept your hair safe, I know about your love affair with it, and don’t worry, I don’t judge.” Dean says, but there’s no teasing in his voice.

_let it be_

Sam settles on the edge of the bed, and Dean groans.

“That’s not it, and you know it.” Sam says, and his voice is pitched low. Dean’s spine tingles.

“I--I left you in there.” Sam says.

Sam’s big hand reaches out and pins Dean’s body into place, and Dean curses the fact that Sam knows how close he was to launching himself off of the bed.

Sam’s hand is warm on his hip, and Dean is stiff as death in the hold.

“Lemme finish, okay?” Sam says, and Dean doesn’t move. Kid’s got his answer.

“That was wrong.” Sam says. “I was wrong. More than that, though, it was fucking cruel, Dean.” Dean’s hip twitches, and he’s like, four seconds away from tackling Sam in order to knock him out.

“I got scared man. Thought I lost you for good, and I didn’t wanna fuck up again--not like I did with Ruby.” Sam’s voice is careful and Dean clears his dry throat.

“Didn’t fuck up, Sam. I didn’t mean that. With Vance.” Dean says. “I didn’t mean that.” He repeats.

He can feel the bed move as Sam waves his hand dismissively. “I did though. I fucked up anyway, and in a worse way too, cause at least I was doing something that time.”

Dean’s losing circulation in his hand with the way he’s got the sheet wrapped around his palm.

“I shouldn’t have told you I was gonna leave.” Sam grits out, and then he’s facing his brother, because Sammy’s manhandled him into position. Dean’s a little light-headed from the sudden shift, but he can breathe again.

Sam’s hand comes up to cradle his cheek, and Dean’s body runs hot and then chilled in a second.

“I shouldn’t have said I was gonna be the one to kill Benny, either.” Sam whispers, and Dean can see how much it costs Sam to admit that.

“We hunt things like him,” Dean says stiffly. “It’s how you were raised.”

Sam’s already shaking his head though, and his grip tightens on Dean’s face.

“Nah. That’s not what that was. I was--am, mad.” Dean raises his brow, and he’s already working up the air to tell Sam that he hasn’t got the right, when Sam shakes his head.

“M’jealous that you--shit that you’ve got someone who--who does you better than me.” Sam’s voice hitches and Dean’s halfway to rising when Sam pushes him down, flat, quickly removing his hand after.

“Jesus, Dean, you don’t know how gone I am on you. Always been like this.” Sam says, and Dean’s suddenly thankful it’s dark, because he doesn’t think he wants to see Sam’s countenance.

Dean’s suddenly cold. How much does Sam know? About he and Benny?

“You’re like this---” Sam motions to Dean in the dark and Dean flushes, he’s well aware that he’s a mess, thanks, “and I didn’t help you.”

Sam releases Dean’s face to press his own head into his hands, and Dean rises freely, drapes his arms around Sam’s shoulders.

“Calm down, Sam. It’s fine. You’re fine.” Dean says, and between one blink to the next he’s pinned, Sam’s bigger body blanketed over his own. Dean’s heart rate is elevated, and he works on controlling his breathing.

“Don’t _do_ that,” Sam mutters, “don’t take this on you.” Sam says. “This one’s mine. This one belongs to me.”

Sam slots his knee between Dean’s thighs, knocks Dean’s legs wide like ruin.

“Sammy,” Dean says, and there’s too little warning in his voice. “Sam,” he tries again, but that’s not much better.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Sam continues, and then his knee is brushing the underside of Dean’s cock, and it sends a lance of heat up his torso. Sam pauses, and then he’s back, full throttle, the way only Sam can be.

Dean’s hips grind down, involuntarily, and he jerks himself to a standstill. His eyes have adjusted to the dark now, and he can see Sam’s face, the thin layer of concentration.

“Don’t stop baby,” Sam says, and before Dean can sock him for the endearment, Sam’s hand is wrapped around his dick, over top of his boxers, and he’s at full-mast with a ferocity that surely damages some brain cells.

“Motherfucker,” Dean breathes, and he can feel, more than see Sam’s answering grin.

“This what you want?” Sam asks, and Dean doesn’t know how the kid expects him to answer with the way he’s running his thumb around Dean’s frenulum. Sam catches a dollop of pre-come and rubs it into the crown, Sam-methodical.

“Tell me,” Sam says, and it’s harsh, but not with malevolence, Dean recognizes, more with need.

“Y-yeah, Sam,” Dean says, and he had more to say, he’s sure of it, but that’s apparently all Sam needs, because he’s jerking Dean’s boxers down his thighs and off, to tangle around his left ankle.

Dean’s dick jerks and slaps against his lower abdomen, and he can feel the sticky-slide of pre-come against his abs.

“Lemme see you,” Sam says, and it’s reverent, and Dean immediately wants to do the exact opposite. Sam crab-backs away from his looming position, and Dean angles his head down as Sam uses his big hands to push Dean’s thighs even further open, brackets his shoulders between them.

Sam’s face-level with his dick, and Dean’s lightheaded with Sam’s breakneck speed, Sammy, who reads no less than ten reviews on a product before he buys it.

“Jesus you smell good,” Sam says, and it’s clear as day.

Dean squirms, wants to say something about how Sam can take a picture later, get to the good stuff, but then Sam’s lapping at the crown with the flat of his tongue, and all of Dean’s higher functioning takes a nosedive.

“Oh, fuck, Sam,” Dean grits out, and then Sam’s lowering his open mouth and _humming_ around his dick, and Dean thinks crazily that he’s happy they didn’t kill him in there, because this is gonna do it for them.

Sam wraps his right hand lazily around the base of Dean’s cock, holds it steady for himself. His dick is inadvertently further ensconced in warm-sun, and Dean’s hips flicker up.

Sam drags his teeth up the shaft, a gentle nip, and then he sucks up and off, and Dean feels like he’s ran a ten miler.

“Sam?” Dean says, and he fucking loathes the uncertainty in his voice.

“This is yours,” Sam says, his voice is a little raspy, and that does miraculous things to Dean’s libido.

Sam’s pushing Dean’s thighs up against his chest then, and Dean’s amazed his legs are steady enough for that. “Hold em’,” Sam commands, and Dean grasps his limbs just behind the knee, hands trembling minutely.

His ass is abruptly exposed to the chill of the room, and he can feel his asshole twitch at the contact of smooth air.

“Sam,” Dean warns, but then his feels the blood-warmth of Sam’s hands cupping his cheeks, pulling them apart so wide that the stretch stings a bit.

“Sam,” Dean tries again, but then Sam’s lowering his head and Dean’s entire body spasms as Sam runs the tip of his tongue over the swirl of his hole.

“Sam Winchester,” Dean spits out, and he hears Sam laugh quietly against his ass. “Oh, you’re gonna like this,” Sam says, and it’s so low and dirty-hard that Dean’s dick hurts when it jumps.

Sam nips at the edge of his hole with his teeth, and Dean can barely maintain his self-imposed silence. Sam runs his tongue against the furl, and then the tip of it dips in slightly, only to retreat just as quickly.

Sam repeats the pattern again, but the third time he stabs his tongue deep, and Dean’s traitorous body opens right on up to receive him.

“Jesus, J-Jesus, Sam,” Dean huffs out, and then his lower half scrambles to follow Sam’s mouth as he momentarily disengages.

“You like that?” Sam says, and it’s dark again, and Dean tries to reconcile this sex-monster of a brother with the Sam he knows.

Sam’s mouth returns with a vengeance, and now he slides his thumbs in alongside the wet cavern of his mouth, sucking and pulling apart the hole so his tongue can stretch even deeper.

Dean doesn’t realize how hard he’s rocking into Sam’s mouth, can feel the cool of his brother’s teeth ricochet off of his ass. Dean’s making these high noises, they’re spilling out of his mouth so fast and loud that he gives up on trying to control them entirely.

Sam’s tongue leaves him but the tip of his thumb remains, just enough to hold Dean a little open.

“That’s right,” Sam breathes, “that’s what you want.” Dean’s blind and dumb and he’s just nodding, whatever Sam wants, and then Sam’s gone, weight of his body disappearing from the bed like smoke of a bad dream.

“Sam?” Dean questions, trying to reclaim his bearings and breath at the same time.

Sam’s rummaging through his bedside drawer like a madman, and Dean can see pads of paper tumble out, pens and a stapler.

Sam comes up with something smooth and white in his hand, and then he’s pressing Dean back down into the sheets, sliding back in between Dean’s legs like he belongs there, like it’s his space to own and move and breathe.

“Hold em’ sweetheart,” Sam says, and Dean’s dick is apparently hardwired to the sound of Sam’s sex-croon, and he resumes the position.

Sam’s fingers are back, and they’re chilled now, and Dean takes a second to connect the chill with lotion, he can smell the almost non-scent of it, and then the tip of Sam’s index is sliding through the warmth of his hole like a shovel in dirt.

Dean jerks like livewire, and he’s afraid, but shit, that’s nice, too.

Sam’s eyes are so hard on him that Dean’s afraid to look up, but he knows Sam won’t go on until he does. “Dean,” Sam says softly. “Look at me. Dean.”

Dean does, tilts his head back and up, and Sam’s smiling, but it’s laced in hunger and Dean’s body shudders in place.

Sam twists the finger deeper and then Dean feels the hint of another blunt force and then his rim pops open with Sam’s middle finger. Dean wants to pull away, say he’s not a back alley whore and maybe he needs some dinner first, like a steak dinner, but then Sam’s finger brushes against the Holy Grail of sensation in his ass, and all his complaints evaporate.

“One more time,” Dean says, and Sam’s close again, angling another finger deeper as he scissors at the same time, wide V of Dean’s legs and the juxtaposition of his fingering.

“Just one, Dean?” Sam says, and he does it again, cruel flick of his middle finger. Dean’s dick spasms with a violence that sends Sam’s hand up to squeeze so hard at the base of Dean’s cock that he sees stars.

“Want you to come on my dick,” Sam says, and Dean can barely see, and what’s Sam going on about? “Wanna give it to you,” Sam says, and his fingers slide free. Dean can hear the squelch of release, feel the winking gape of his asshole, and it makes him feel wanton.

He stretches his legs open a little wider, and he knows all about this. Sam’s looking at him so hungrily that Dean thinks Sam might eat him raw.

“That all talk, Sam?” Dean purrs, and then Sam’s shoving his pants down only far enough for his dick to pop free, and Dean wants to suck on the damn thing, first chance he gets.

What?

Sam’s long, longer than Dean, he recognizes, and he’s surprisingly good with it. He’s always known, but this is the first time that outright looking is acceptable. Sam’s slicking himself up, his eyes never leaving Dean’s.

Dean knows what he looks like, spread open and flushed, his dick wet and curving down a little, so hard he could come with a kiss of air to the crown.

Dean arches his back and Sam surges forward.

“Shit. Shit. M’gonna come ‘fore I even get it in,” Sam says, and his head’s bowed so low that Dean can feel his hair against his face again.

Dean feels the blunt force of the head and then Sam’s easing it past the reticence of his rim, bubblegum pop of success.

The air’s punched right out of Dean’s lungs with the force, and Sam’s so slow, inexorable even, and fuck, after all this, he just wants.

Dean lifts his legs, wraps them around Sam’s narrow waist and shoves himself forward, bright-light of dick eating his ass right up. Dean grunts his way through the heady burn, and Sam groans loud and long in the clear dark of the room.

Sam gets the picture then, doesn’t wait a second before he’s bottomed out before he’s pulling back and then surging in. He’s punishing with his thrusts, cups his hand around the back of Dean’s head so Dean doesn’t clip the headboard with every forward shove.

“M’sorry, “ Sam’s saying, and his little brother’s crying.

Dean arches into the pull and give, spread his legs so that they flop open gracelessly beside him.

“S-Sammy,” Dean says, because he can’t catch his air, it’s not made up of anything but Sam, the taste and smell and the feel of his brother.

Sam corkscrews his hips and then leans even further down, latches his lips onto the vulnerable point between Dean’s chin and pulse.

He bites down heavily, rotating his hips in smooth half circles, and Dean can feel pinpricks of light and pleasure from that center inside of him.

“M’gonna come, Sam,” Dean says, so soft and weightless he’s surprised Sam hears him.

“That’s right, baby, c’mon,” Sam says harshly. “C’mon Dean.” Sam punctuates his words with another bite, shoves his dick so far inside Dean that their balls connect and slap against one another.

Dean’s coming then, not a hand on his dick, and that’s something he doesn’t think he’ll be able to replicate anytime soon. Dean’s entire body suspends itself, and then there’s light, everywhere.

He doesn’t remember the last time he saw anything so beautiful, so bright.

He’s distantly aware that Sam’s coming too, the warmth filling up the aching parts of his ass and his space, and Dean’s body gives out on him, useless under the curtain of Sam’s warmth.

Sam doesn’t collapse the way Dean expects him to, instead he looks down at Dean, sweat-slick of his hair tucked behind one ear.

“Whatever happens,” Sam’s saying, and Dean struggles to focus.

“What?” Dean says.

“Whatever happens, I’m always coming for you.” Sam says. Dean rolls his eyes, makes to shove Sam off of him, but his brother holds steady, dick still firmly twitching within.

“Got it Sam,” Dean says quickly, but Sam’s eyes don’t waver from his. “Dead serious Dean. Whatever that ends up meaning,” Sam says quietly, “I’m coming.”

When Dean closes his eyes, he remembers they serve a monstrous God.

 


End file.
